A girl could be had for an hour or two; or two girls, together, with amazing speed, could put a small house in dainty order while the sick man lay in his hammock under the pepper trees; and be gone before he was fretting for his bed again. They lived upon her lunches; and from them, and other quarters, rose an increasing demand for regular cooked food.

"Why don't you go into it at once?" urged Mrs. Weatherstone.

"I want to establish the day service first," said Diantha. "It is a pretty big business I find, and I do get tired sometimes. I can't afford to slip up, you know. I mean to take it up next fall, though."

"All right. And look here; see that you begin in first rate shape. I've got some ideas of my own about those food containers."

They discussed the matter more than once, Diantha most reluctant to take any assistance; Mrs. Weatherstone determined that she should.

"I feel like a big investor already," she said. "I don't think even you realize the money there is in this thing! You are interested in establishing the working girls, and saving money and time for the housewives. I am interested in making money out of it—honestly! It would be such a triumph!"

"You're very good—" Diantha hesitated.

"I'm not good. I'm most eagerly and selfishly interested. I've taken a new lease of life since knowing you, Diantha Bell! You see my father was a business man, and his father before him—I like it. There I was, with lots of money, and not an interest in life! Now?—why, there's no end to this thing, Diantha! It's one of the biggest businesses on earth—if not the biggest!"

"Yes—I know," the girl answered. "But its slow work. I feel the weight of it more than I expected. There's every reason to succeed, but there's the combined sentiment of the whole world to lift—it's as heavy as lead."

"Heavy! Of course it's heavy! The more fun to lift it! You'll do it, Diantha, I know you will, with that steady, relentless push of yours. But the cooked food is going to be your biggest power, and you must let me start it right. Now you listen to me, and make Mrs. Thaddler eat her words!"

Mrs. Thaddler's words would have proved rather poisonous, if eaten. She grew more antagonistic as the year advanced. Every fault that could be found in the undertaking she pounced upon and enlarged; every doubt that could be cast upon it she heavily piled up; and her opposition grew more rancorous as Mr. Thaddler enlarged in her hearing upon the excellence of Diantha's lunches and the wonders of her management.

"She's picked a bunch o' winners in those girls of hers," he declared to his friends. "They set out in the morning looking like a flock of sweet peas—in their pinks and whites and greens and vi'lets,—and do more work in an hour than the average slavey can do in three, I'm told."

It was a pretty sight to see those girls start out. They had a sort of uniform, as far as a neat gingham dress went, with elbow sleeves, white ruffled, and a Dutch collar; a sort of cross between a nurses dress and that of "La Chocolataire;" but colors were left to taste. Each carried her apron and a cap that covered the hair while cooking and sweeping; but nothing that suggested the black and white livery of the regulation servant.

"This is a new stage of labor," their leader reminded them. "You are not servants—you are employees. You wear a cap as an English carpenter does—or a French cook,—and an apron because your work needs it. It is not a ruffled label,—it's a business necessity. And each one of us must do our best to make this new kind of work valued and respected."

It is no easy matter to overcome prejudices many centuries old, and meet the criticism of women who have nothing to do but criticize. Those who were "mistresses," and wanted "servants,"—someone to do their will at any moment from early morning till late evening,—were not pleased with the new way if they tried it; but the women who had interests of their own to attend to; who merely wanted their homes kept clean, and the food well cooked and served, were pleased. The speed, the accuracy, the economy; the pleasant, quiet, assured manner of these skilled employees was a very different thing from the old slipshod methods of the ordinary general servant.

So the work slowly prospered, while Diantha began to put in execution the new plan she had been forced into.

While it matured, Mrs. Thaddler matured hers. With steady dropping she had let fall far and wide her suspicions as to the character of Union House.

"It looks pretty queer to me!" she would say, confidentially, "All those girls together, and no person to have any authority over them! Not a married woman in the house but that washerwoman,—and her husband's a fool!"

"And again; You don't see how she does it? Neither do I! The expenses must be tremendous—those girls pay next to nothing,—and all that broth and brown bread flying about town! Pretty queer doings, I think!"

"The men seem to like that caffeteria, don't they?" urged one caller, perhaps not unwilling to nestle Mrs. Thaddler, who flushed darkly as she replied. "Yes, they do. Men usually like that sort of place."

"They like good food at low prices, if that's what you mean," her visitor answered.

"That's not all I mean—by a long way," said Mrs. Thaddler. She said so much, and said it so ingeniously, that a dark rumor arose from nowhere, and grew rapidly. Several families discharged their Union House girls. Several girls complained that they were insultingly spoken to on the street. Even the lunch patronage began to fall off.

Diantha was puzzled—a little alarmed. Her slow, steady lifting of the prejudice against her was checked. She could not put her finger on the enemy, yet felt one distinctly, and had her own suspicions. But she also had her new move well arranged by this time.

Then a maliciously insinuating story of the place came out in a San Francisco paper, and a flock of local reporters buzzed in to sample the victim. They helped themselves to the luncheon, and liked it. but that did not soften their pens. They talked with such of the girls as they could get in touch with, and wrote such versions of these talks as suited them.

They called repeatedly at Union House, but Diantha refused to see them. Finally she was visited by the Episcopalian clergyman. He had heard her talk at the Club, was favorably impressed by the girl herself, and honestly distressed by the dark stories he now heard about Union House.

"My dear young lady," he said, "I have called to see you in your own interests. I do not, as you perhaps know, approve of your schemes. I consider them—ah—subversive of the best interests of the home! But I think you mean well, though mistakenly. Now I fear you are not aware that this-ah—ill-considered undertaking of yours, is giving rise to considerable adverse comment in the community. There is—ah—there is a great deal being said about this business of yours which I am sure you would regret if you knew it. Do you think it is wise; do you think it is—ah—right, my dear Miss Bell, to attempt to carry on a—a place of this sort, without the presence of a—of a Matron of assured standing?"

Diantha smiled rather coldly.

"May I trouble you to step into the back parlor, Dr. Aberthwaite," she said; and then;

"May I have the pleasure of presenting to you Mrs. Henderson Bell—my mother?"

*

"Wasn't it great!" said Mrs. Weatherstone; "I was there you see,— I'd come to call on Mrs. Bell—she's a dear,—and in came Mrs. Thaddler—"

"Mrs. Thaddler?"

"O I know it was old Aberthwaite, but he represented Mrs. Thaddler and her clique, and had come there to preach to Diantha about propriety—I heard him,—and she brought him in and very politely introduced him to her mother!—it was rich, Isabel."

"How did Diantha manage it?" asked her friend.

"She's been trying to arrange it for ever so long. Of course her father objected—you'd know that. But there's a sister—not a bad sort, only very limited; she's taken the old man to board, as it were, and I guess the mother really set her foot down for once—said she had a right to visit her own daughter!"

"It would seem so," Mrs. Porne agreed. "I am so glad! It will be so much easier for that brave little woman now."

It was.

Diantha held her mother in her arms the night she came, and cried tike a baby.

"O mother dear!" she sobbed, "I'd no idea I should miss you so much. O you blessed comfort!"

Her mother cried a bit too; she enjoyed this daughter more than either of her older children, and missed her more. A mother loves all her children, naturally; but a mother is also a person—and may, without sin, have personal preferences.

She took hold of Diantha's tangled mass of papers with the eagerness of a questing hound.

"You've got all the bills, of course," she demanded, with her anxious rising inflection.

"Every one," said the girl. "You taught me that much. What puzzles me is to make things balance. I'm making more than I thought in some lines, and less in others, and I can't make it come out straight."

"It won't, altogether, till the end of the year I dare say," said Mrs. Bell, "but let's get clear as far as we can. In the first place we must separate your business,—see how much each one pays."

"The first one I want to establish," said her daughter, "is the girl's club. Not just this one, with me to run it. But to show that any group of twenty or thirty girls could do this thing in any city. Of course where rents and provisions were high they'd have to charge more. I want to make an average showing somehow. Now can you disentangle the girl part front the lunch part and the food part, mother dear, and make it all straight?"

Mrs. Bell could and did; it gave her absolute delight to do it. She set down the total of Diantha's expenses so far in the Service Department, as follows:

Rent of Union House . . . $1,500 Rent of furniture . . . $300 One payment on furniture . . . $400 Fuel and lights, etc. . . . $352 Service of 5 at $10 a week each . . . $2,600 Food for thirty-seven . . . $3,848 ——- Total . . . $9,000

"That covers everything but my board," said Mrs. Bell.

"Now your income is easy—35 x $4.50 equals $8,190. Take that from your $9,000 and you are $810 behind."

"Yes, I know," said Diantha, eagerly, "but if it was merely a girl's club home, the rent and fixtures would be much less. A home could be built, with thirty bedrooms—and all necessary conveniences—for $7,000. I've asked Mr. and Mrs. Porne about it; and the furnishing needn't cost over $2,000 if it was very plain. Ten per cent. of that is a rent of $900 you see."

"I see," said her mother. "Better say a thousand. I guess it could be done for that."

So they set down rent, $1,000.

"There have to be five paid helpers in the house," Diantha went on, "the cook, the laundress, the two maids, and the matron. She must buy and manage. She could be one of their mothers or aunts."

Mrs. Bell smiled. "Do you really imagine, Diantha, that Mrs. O'Shaughnessy or Mrs. Yon Yonson can manage a house like this as you can?"

Diantha flushed a little. "No, mother, of course not. But I am keeping very full reports of all the work. Just the schedule of labor—the hours—the exact things done. One laundress, with machinery, can wash for thirty-five, (its only six a day you see), and the amount is regulated; about six dozen a day, and all the flat work mangled.

"In a Girl's Club alone the cook has all day off, as it were; she can do the down stairs cleaning. And the two maids have only table service and bedrooms."

"Thirty-five bedrooms?"

"Yes. But two girls together, who know how, can do a room in 8 minutes—easily. They are small and simple you see. Make the bed, shake the mats, wipe the floors and windows,—you watch them!"

"I have watched them," the mother admitted. "They are as quick as—as mill-workers!"

"Well," pursued Diantha, "they spend three hours on dishes and tables, and seven on cleaning. The bedrooms take 280 minutes; that's nearly five hours. The other two are for the bath rooms, halls, stairs, downstairs windows, and so on. That's all right. Then I'm keeping the menus—just what I furnish and what it costs. Anybody could order and manage when it was all set down for her. And you see—as you have figured it—they'd have over $500 leeway to buy the furniture if they were allowed to."

"Yes," Mrs. Bell admitted, "if the rent was what you allow, and if they all work all the time!"

"That's the hitch, of course. But mother; the girls who don't have steady jobs do work by the hour, and that brings in more, on the whole. If they are the right kind they can make good. If they find anyone who don't keep her job—for good reasons—they can drop her."

"M'm!" said Mrs. Bell. "Well, it's an interesting experiment. But how about you? So far you are $410 behind."

"Yes, because my rent's so big. But I cover that by letting the rooms, you see."

Mrs. Bell considered the orders of this sort. "So far it averages about $25.00 a week; that's doing well."

"It will be less in summer—much less," Diantha suggested. "Suppose you call it an average of $15.00."

"Call it $10.00," said her mother ruthlessly. "At that it covers your deficit and $110 over."

"Which isn't much to live on," Diantha agreed, "but then comes my special catering, and the lunches."

Here they were quite at sea for a while. But as the months passed, and the work steadily grew on their hands, Mrs. Bell became more and more cheerful. She was up with the earliest, took entire charge of the financial part of the concern, and at last Diantha was able to rest fully in her afternoon hours. What delighted her most was to see her mother thrive in the work. Her thin shoulders lifted a little as small dragging tasks were forgotten and a large growing business substituted. Her eyes grew bright again, she held her head as she did in her keen girlhood, and her daughter felt fresh hope and power as she saw already the benefit of the new method as affecting her nearest and dearest.

All Diantha's friends watched the spread of the work with keenly sympathetic intent; but to Mrs. Weatherstone it became almost as fascinating as to the girl herself.

"It's going to be one of the finest businesses in the world!" she said, "And one of the largest and best paying. Now I'll have a surprise ready for that girl in the spring, and another next year, if I'm not mistaken!"

There were long and vivid discussions of the matter between her and her friends the Pornes, and Mrs. Porne spent more hours in her "drawing room" than she had for years.

But while these unmentioned surprises were pending, Mrs. Weatherstone departed to New York—to Europe; and was gone some months. In the spring she returned, in April—which is late June in Orchardina. She called upon Diantha and her mother at once, and opened her attack.

"I do hope, Mrs. Bell, that you'll back me up," she said. "You have the better business head I think, in the financial line."

"She has," Diantha admitted. "She's ten times as good as I am at that; but she's no more willing to carry obligation than I am, Mrs. Weatherstone."

"Obligation is one thing—investment is another," said her guest. "I live on my money—that is, on other people's work. I am a base capitalist, and you seem to me good material to invest in. So—take it or leave it—I've brought you an offer."

She then produced from her hand bag some papers, and, from her car outside, a large object carefully boxed, about the size and shape of a plate warmer. This being placed on the table before them, was uncovered, and proved to be a food container of a new model.

"I had one made in Paris," she explained, "and the rest copied here to save paying duty. Lift it!"

They lifted it in amazement—it was so light.

"Aluminum," she said, proudly, "Silver plated—new process! And bamboo at the corners you see. All lined and interlined with asbestos, rubber fittings for silver ware, plate racks, food compartments—see?"

She pulled out drawers, opened little doors, and rapidly laid out a table service for five.

"It will hold food for five—the average family, you know. For larger orders you'll have to send more. I had to make some estimate."

"What lovely dishes!" said Diantha.

"Aren't they! Aluminum, silvered! If your washers are careful they won't get dented, and you can't break 'em."

Mrs. Bell examined the case and all its fittings with eager attention.

"It's the prettiest thing I ever saw," she said. "Look, Diantha; here's for soup, here's for water—or wine if you want, all your knives and forks at the side, Japanese napkins up here. Its lovely, but—I should think—expensive!"

Mrs. Weatherstone smiled. "I've had twenty-five of them made. They cost, with the fittings, $100 apiece, $2,500. I will rent them to you, Miss Bell, at a rate of 10 per cent. interest; only $250 a year!"

"It ought to take more," said Mrs. Bell, "there'll be breakage and waste."

"You can't break them, I tell you," said the cheerful visitor, "and dents can be smoothed out in any tin shop—you'll have to pay for it;—will that satisfy you?"

Diantha was looking at her, her eyes deep with gratitude. "I—you know what I think of you!" she said.

Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. "I'm not through yet," she said. "Look at my next piece of impudence!" This was only on paper, but the pictures were amply illuminating.

"I went to several factories," she gleefully explained, "here and abroad. A Yankee firm built it. It's in my garage now!"

It was a light gasolene motor wagon, the body built like those old-fashioned moving wagons which were also used for excursions, wherein the floor of the vehicle was rather narrow, and set low, and the seats ran lengthwise, widening out over the wheels; only here the wheels were lower, and in the space under the seats ran a row of lockers opening outside. Mrs. Weatherstone smiled triumphantly.

"Now, Diantha Bell," she said, "here's something you haven't thought of, I do believe! This estimable vehicle will carry thirty people inside easily," and she showed them how each side held twelve, and turn-up seats accommodated six more; "and outside,"—she showed the lengthwise picture—"it carries twenty-four containers. If you want to send all your twenty-five at once, one can go here by the driver.

"Now then. This is not an obligation, Miss Bell, it is another valuable investment. I'm having more made. I expect to have use for them in a good many places. This cost pretty near $3,000, and you get it at the same good interest, for $300 a year. What's more, if you are smart enough—and I don't doubt you are,—you can buy the whole thing on installments, same as you mean to with your furniture."

Diantha was dumb, but her mother wasn't. She thanked Mrs. Weatherstone with a hearty appreciation of her opportune help, but no less of her excellent investment.

"Don't be a goose, Diantha," she said. "You will set up your food business in first class style, and I think you can carry it successfully. But Mrs. Weatherstone's right; she's got a new investment here that'll pay her better than most others—and be a growing thing I do believe."

And still Diantha found it difficult to express her feelings. She had lived under a good deal of strain for many months now, and this sudden opening out of her plans was a heavenly help indeed.

Mrs. Weatherstone went around the table and sat by her. "Child," said she, "you don't begin to realize what you've done for me—and for Isobel—and for ever so many in this town, and all over the world. And besides, don't you think anybody else can see your dream? We can't do it as you can, but we can see what it's going to mean,—and we'll help if we can. You wouldn't grudge us that, would you?"

As a result of all this the cooked food delivery service was opened at once.

"It is true that the tourists are gone, mostly," said Mrs. Weatherstone, as she urged it, "but you see there are ever so many residents who have more trouble with servants in summer than they do in winter, and hate to have a fire in the house, too."

So Diantha's circulars had an addition, forthwith.

These were distributed among the Orchardinians, setting their tongues wagging anew, as a fresh breeze stirs the eaves of the forest.

The stealthy inroads of lunches and evening refreshments had been deprecated already; this new kind of servant who wasn't a servant, but held her head up like anyone else ("They are as independent as—as—'salesladies,'" said one critic), was also viewed with alarm; but when even this domestic assistant was to be removed, and a square case of food and dishes substituted, all Archaic Orchardina was horrified.

There were plenty of new minds in the place, however; enough to start Diantha with seven full orders and five partial ones.

Her work at the club was now much easier, thanks to her mother's assistance, to the smoother running of all the machinery with the passing of time, and further to the fact that most of her girls were now working at summer resorts, for shorter hours and higher wages. They paid for their rooms at the club still, but the work of the house was so much lightened that each of the employees was given two weeks of vacation—on full pay.

The lunch department kept on a pretty regular basis from the patronage of resident business men, and the young manager—in her ambitious moments—planned for enlarging it in the winter. But during the summer her whole energies went to perfecting the menus and the service of her food delivery.

Mrs. Porne was the very first to order. She had been waiting impatiently for a chance to try the plan, and, with her husband, had the firmest faith in Diantha's capacity to carry it through.

"We don't save much in money," she explained to the eager Mrs. Ree, who hovered, fascinated, over the dangerous topic, "but we do in comfort, I can tell you. You see I had two girls, paid them $12 a week; now I keep just the one, for $6. My food and fuel for the four of us (I don't count the babies either time—they remain as before), was all of $16, often more. That made $28 a week. Now I pay for three meals a day, delivered, for three of us, $15 a week—with the nurse's wages, $21. Then I pay a laundress one day, $2, and her two meals, $.50, making $23.50. Then I have two maids, for an hour a day, to clean; $.50 a day for six days, $3, and one maid Sunday, $.25. $26.75 in all. So we only make $1.25.

But! there's another room! We have the cook's room for an extra guest; I use it most for a sewing room, though and the kitchen is a sort of day nursery now. The house seems as big again!"

"But the food?" eagerly inquired Mrs. Ree. "Is it as good as your own? Is it hot and tempting?"

Mrs. Ree was fascinated by the new heresy. As a staunch adherent of the old Home and Culture Club, and its older ideals, she disapproved of the undertaking, but her curiosity was keen about it.

Mrs. Porne smiled patiently. "You remember Diantha Bell's cooking I am sure, Mrs. Ree," she said. "And Julianna used to cook for dinner parties—when one could get her. My Swede was a very ordinary cook, as most of these untrained girls are. Do take off your hat and have dinner with us,—I'll show you," urged Mrs. Porne.

"I—O I mustn't," fluttered the little woman. "They'll expect me at home—and—surely your—supply—doesn't allow for guests?"

"We'll arrange all that by 'phone," her hostess explained; and she promptly sent word to the Ree household, then called up Union House and ordered one extra dinner.

"Is it—I'm dreadfully rude I know, but I'm so interested! Is it—expensive?"

Mrs. Porne smiled. "Haven't you seen the little circular? Here's one, 'Extra meals to regular patrons 25 cents.' And no more trouble to order than to tell a maid."

Mrs. Ree had a lively sense of paltering with Satan as she sat down to the Porne's dinner table. She had seen the delivery wagon drive to the door, had heard the man deposit something heavy on the back porch, and was now confronted by a butler's tray at Mrs. Porne's left, whereon stood a neat square shining object with silvery panels and bamboo trimmings.

"It's not at all bad looking, is it?" she ventured.

"Not bad enough to spoil one's appetite," Mr. Porne cheerily agreed.

"Open, Sesame! Now you know the worst."

Mrs. Porne opened it, and an inner front was shown, with various small doors and drawers.

"Do you know what is in it?" asked the guest.

"No, thank goodness, I don't," replied her hostess. "If there's anything tiresome it is to order meals and always know what's coming! That's what men get so tired of at restaurants; what they hate so when their wives ask them what they want for dinner. Now I can enjoy my dinner at my own table, just as if I was a guest."

"It is—a tax—sometimes," Mrs. Ree admitted, adding hastily, "But one is glad to do it—to make home attractive."

Mr. Porne's eyes sought his wife's, and love and contentment flashed between them, as she quietly set upon the table three silvery plates.

"Not silver, surely!" said Mrs. Ree, lifting hers, "Oh, aluminum."

"Aluminum, silver plated," said Mr. Porne. "They've learned how to do it at last. It's a problem of weight, you see, and breakage. Aluminum isn't pretty, glass and silver are heavy, but we all love silver, and there's a pleasant sense of gorgeousness in this outfit."

It did look rather impressive; silver tumblers, silver dishes, the whole dainty service—and so surprisingly light.

"You see she knows that it is very important to please the eye as well as the palate," said Mr. Porne. "Now speaking of palates, let us all keep silent and taste this soup." They did keep silent in supreme contentment while the soup lasted. Mrs. Ree laid down her spoon with the air of one roused from a lovely dream.

"Why—why—it's like Paris," she said in an awed tone.

"Isn't it?" Mr. Porne agreed, "and not twice alike in a month, I think."

"Why, there aren't thirty kinds of soup, are there?" she urged.

"I never thought there were when we kept servants," said he. "Three was about their limit, and greasy, at that."

Mrs. Porne slipped the soup plates back in their place and served the meat.

"She does not give a fish course, does she?" Mrs. Ree observed.

"Not at the table d'hote price," Mrs. Porne answered. "We never pretended to have a fish course ourselves—do you?" Mrs. Ree did not, and eagerly disclaimed any desire for fish. The meat was roast beef, thinly sliced, hot and juicy.

"Don't you miss the carving, Mr. Porne?" asked the visitor. "I do so love to see a man at the head of his own table, carving."

"I do miss it, Mrs. Ree. I miss it every day of my life with devout thankfulness. I never was a good carver, so it was no pleasure to me to show off; and to tell you the truth, when I come to the table, I like to eat—not saw wood." And Mr. Porne ate with every appearance of satisfaction.

"We never get roast beef like this I'm sure," Mrs. Ree admitted, "we can't get it small enough for our family."

"And a little roast is always spoiled in the cooking. Yes this is far better than we used to have," agreed her hostess.

Mrs. Ree enjoyed every mouthful of her meal. The soup was hot. The salad was crisp and the ice cream hard. There was sponge cake, thick, light, with sugar freckles on the dark crust. The coffee was perfect and almost burned the tongue.

"I don't understand about the heat and cold," she said; and they showed her the asbestos-lined compartments and perfectly fitting places for each dish and plate. Everything went back out of sight; small leavings in a special drawer, knives and forks held firmly by rubber fittings, nothing that shook or rattled. And the case was set back by the door where the man called for it at eight o'clock.

"She doesn't furnish table linen?"

"No, there are Japanese napkins at the top here. We like our own napkins, and we didn't use a cloth, anyway."

"And how about silver?"

"We put ours away. This plated ware they furnish is perfectly good. We could use ours of course if we wanted to wash it. Some do that and some have their own case marked, and their own silver in it, but it's a good deal of risk, I think, though they are extremely careful."

Mrs. Ree experienced peculiarly mixed feelings. As far as food went, she had never eaten a better dinner. But her sense of Domestic Aesthetics was jarred.

"It certainly tastes good," she said. "Delicious, in fact. I am extremely obliged to you, Mrs. Porne, I'd no idea it could be sent so far and be so good. And only five dollars a week, you say?"

"For each person, yes."

"I don't see how she does it. All those cases and dishes, and the delivery wagon!"

That was the universal comment in Orchardina circles as the months passed and Union House continued in existence—"I don't see how she does it!"



THE WAITING-ROOM

The Waiting-room. With row on row Of silent strangers sitting idly there, In a large place expressionless and bare, Waiting for trains to take them other-where; And worst for children, who don't even know Where they're to go.

The Waiting-room. Dull pallid Patients here, Stale magazines, cheap books, a dreary place; Each Silent Stranger, with averted face, Waiting for Some One Else to help his case; and worst for children, wondering in fear Who will appear.



WHILE THE KING SLEPT

He was a young king, but an old subject, for he had been born and raised a subject, and became a king quite late in life, and unexpectedly.

When he was a subject he had admired and envied kings, and had often said to himself "If I were a king I would do this—and this." And now that he was a king he did those things. But the things he did were those which came from the envy of subjects, not from the conscience of kings.

He lived in freedom and ease and pleasure, for he did not know that kings worked; much less how their work should be done. And whatever displeased him he made laws against, that it should not be done; and whatever pleased him he made laws for, that it should be done—for he thought kings need but to say the word and their will was accomplished.

Then when the things were not done, when his laws were broken and disregarded and made naught of, he did nothing; for he had not the pride of kings, and knew only the outer showing of their power.

And in his court and his country there flourished Sly Thieves and Gay Wantons and Bold Robbers; also Poisoners and Parasites and Impostors of every degree.

And when he was very angry he slew one and another; but there were many of them, springing like toadstools, so that his land became a scorn to other kings.

He was sensitive and angry when the old kings of the old kingdoms criticized his new kingdom. "They are envious of my new kingdom;" he said; for he thought his kingdom was new, because he was new to it.

Then arose friends and counsellors, many and more, and they gave him criticism and suggestion, blame, advice, and special instructions. Some he denied and some he neglected and some he laughed at and some he would not hear.

And when the Sly Thieves and Gay Wantons and Bold Robbers and Poisoners and Parasites and Imposters of every degree waxed fat before his eyes, and made gorgeous processions with banners before him, he said, "How prosperous my country is!"

Then his friends and counsellors showed him the prisons—overflowing; and the hospitals—overflowing; and the asylums—overflowing; and the schools—with not enough room for the children; and the churches—with not enough children for the room; and the Crime Mill, into which babies were poured by the hundreds every day, and out of which criminals were poured by the hundreds every day; and the Disease Garden, where we raise all diseases and distribute them gratis.

And he said "I am tired of looking at these things, and tired of hearing about them. Why do you forever set before me that which is unpleasant?"

And they said "Because you are the king. If you choose you can turn the empty churches into free schools, teaching Heaven Building. You can gradually empty the hospitals and asylums and prisons, and destroy the Crime Mill, and obliterate the Disease Garden."

But the king said "You are dreamers and mad enthusiasts. These things are the order of nature and cannot be stopped. It was always so." For the king had been a subject all his life, and was used to submission; he knew not the work of kings, nor how to do it.

And the false counsellors and the false friends and all the lying servants who stole from the kitchens and the chambers answered falsely when he asked them, and said, "These evils are the order of nature. Your kingdom is very prosperous."

And the Sly Thieves and the Gay Wantons and the Bold Robbers and the Parasites and Poisoners and Impostors of every degree hung like leeches on the kingdom and bled it at every pore.

But the king was weary and slept.

Then the friends and counsellors went to the Queen, and called on her to learn Queen's work, and do it; for the King slept.

"It is King's work," she said, and strove to waken him with tales of want and sorrow in his kingdom. But he sent her away, saying "I will sleep."

"It is Queen's work also," they said to her; and though she had been a subject with her husband, she was more by nature a Queen. So she fell to and learned Queen's work, and did it.

She had no patience with the Gay Wantons and Sly Thieves and Bold Robbers; and the Poisoners and the Parasites and the Impostors of every degree were a horror to her. The false friends she saw through, and the lying servants she disbelieved.

Since the king would not, she would; and when at last he woke, behold, the throne was a double one, and the kingdom smiled and rejoiced from sea to sea.



THE HOUSEWIFE

Here is the House to hold me—cradle of all the race; Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear— Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling-place; Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here?

Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night; Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight; Duty older than Adam—Duty that saw Acceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw.

Food and the serving of food—that is my daylong care; What and when we shall eat, what and how we shall wear; Soiling and cleaning of things—that is my task in the main— Soil them and clean them and soil them—soil them and clean them again.

To work at my trade by the dozen and never a trade to know; To plan like a Chinese puzzle—fitting and changing so; To think of a thousand details, each in a thousand ways; For my own immediate people and a possible love and praise.

My mind is trodden in circles, tiresome, narrow and hard, Useful, commonplace, private—simply a small back-yard; And I the Mother of Nations!—Blind their struggle and vain!— I cover the earth with my children—each with a housewife's brain.



OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; or, THE MAN-MADE WORLD

XI.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT.

The human concept of Sin has had its uses no doubt; and our special invention of a thing called Punishment has also served a purpose.

Social evolution has worked in many ways wastefully, and with unnecessary pain, but it compares very favorably with natural evolution.

As we grow wiser; as our social consciousness develops, we are beginning to improve on nature in more ways than one; a part of the same great process, but of a more highly sublimated sort.

Nature shows a world of varied and changing environment. Into this comes Life—flushing and spreading in every direction. A pretty hard time Life has of it. In the first place it is dog eat dog in every direction; the joy of the hunter and the most unjoyous fear of the hunted.

But quite outside of this essential danger, the environment waits, grim and unappeasable, and continuously destroys the innocent myriads who fail to meet the one requirement of life—Adaptation. So we must not be too severe in self-condemnation when we see how foolish, cruel, crazily wasteful, is our attitude toward crime and punishment.

We become socially conscious largely through pain, and as we begin to see how much of the pain is wholly of our own causing we are overcome with shame. But the right way for society to face its past is the same as for the individual; to see where it was wrong and stop it—but to waste no time and no emotion over past misdeeds.

What is our present state as to crime? It is pretty bad. Some say it is worse than it used to be; others that it is better. At any rate it is bad enough, and a disgrace to our civilization. We have murderers by the thousand and thieves by the million, of all kinds and sizes; we have what we tenderly call "immorality," from the "errors of youth" to the sodden grossness of old age; married, single, and mixed. We have all the old kinds of wickedness and a lot of new ones, until one marvels at the purity and power of human nature, that it should carry so much disease and still grow on to higher things.

Also we have punishment still with us; private and public; applied like a rabbit's foot, with as little regard to its efficacy. Does a child offend? Punish it! Does a woman offend? Punish her! Does a man offend? Punish him! Does a group offend? Punish them!

"What for?" some one suddenly asks.

"To make them stop doing it!"

"But they have done it!"

"To make them not do it again, then."

"But they do do it again—and worse."

"To prevent other people's doing it, then."

"But it does not prevent them—the crime keeps on. What good is your punishment?"

What indeed!

What is the application of punishment to crime? Its base, its prehistoric base, is simple retaliation; and this is by no means wholly male, let us freely admit. The instinct of resistance, of opposition, of retaliation, lies deeper than life itself. Its underlying law is the law of physics—action and reaction are equal. Life's expression of this law is perfectly natural, but not always profitable. Hit your hand on a stone wall, and the stone wall hits your hand. Very good; you learn that stone walls are hard, and govern yourself accordingly.

Conscious young humanity observed and philosophized, congratulating itself on its discernment. "A man hits me—I hit the man a little harder—then he won't do it again." Unfortunately he did do it again—a little harder still. The effort to hit harder carried on the action and reaction till society, hitting hardest of all, set up a system of legal punishment, of unlimited severity. It imprisoned, it mutilated, it tortured, it killed; it destroyed whole families, and razed contumelious cities to the ground.

Therefore all crime ceased, of course? No? But crime was mitigated, surely! Perhaps. This we have proven at last; that crime does not decrease in proportion to the severest punishment. Little by little we have ceased to raze the cities, to wipe out the families, to cut off the ears, to torture; and our imprisonment is changing from slow death and insanity to a form of attempted improvement.

But punishment as a principle remains in good standing, and is still the main reliance where it does the most harm—in the rearing of children. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" remains in belief, unmodified by the millions of children spoiled by the unspared rod.

The breeders of racehorses have learned better, but not the breeders of children. Our trouble is simply the lack of intelligence. We face the babyish error and the hideous crime in exactly the same attitude.

"This person has done something offensive."

Yes?—and one waits eagerly for the first question of the rational mind—but does not hear it. One only hears "Punish him!"

What is the first question of the rational mind?

"Why?"

Human beings are not first causes. They do not evolve conduct out of nothing. The child does this, the man does that, because of something; because of many things. If we do not like the way people behave, and wish them to behave better, we should, if we are rational beings, study the conditions that produce the conduct.

The connection between our archaic system of punishment and our androcentric culture is two-fold. The impulse of resistance, while, as we have seen, of the deepest natural origin, is expressed more strongly in the male than in the female. The tendency to hit back and hit harder has been fostered in him by sex-combat till it has become of great intensity. The habit of authority too, as old as our history; and the cumulative weight of all the religions and systems of law and government, have furthermore built up and intensified the spirit of retaliation and vengeance.

They have even deified this concept, in ancient religions, crediting to God the evil passions of men. As the small boy recited; "Vengeance. A mean desire to get even with your enemies: 'Vengeance is mine saith the Lord'—'I will repay.'"

The Christian religion teaches better things; better than its expositors and upholders have ever understood—much less practised.

The teaching of "Love your enemies, do good unto them that hate you, and serve them that despitefully use you and persecute you," has too often resulted, when practised at all, in a sentimental negation; a pathetically useless attitude of non-resistance. You might as well base a religion on a feather pillow!

The advice given was active; direct; concrete. "Love!" Love is not non-resistance. "Do good!" Doing good is not non-resistance. "Serve!" Service is not non-resistance.

Again we have an overwhelming proof of the far-reaching effects of our androcentric culture. Consider it once more. Here is one by nature combative and desirous, and not by nature intended to monopolize the management of his species. He assumes to be not only the leader, but the whole thing—to be humanity itself, and to see in woman as Grant Allen so clearly put it "Not only not the race; she is not even half the race, but a subspecies, told off for purposes of reproduction merely."

Under this monstrous assumption, his sex-attributes wholly identified with his human attributes, and overshadowing them, he has imprinted on every human institution the tastes and tendencies of the male. As a male he fought, as a male human being he fought more, and deified fighting; and in a culture based on desire and combat, loud with strident self-expression, there could be but slow acceptance of the more human methods urged by Christianity. "It is a religion for slaves and women!" said the warrior of old. (Slaves and women were largely the same thing.) "It is a religion for slaves and women" says the advocate of the Superman.

Well? Who did the work of all the ancient world? Who raised the food and garnered it and cooked it and served it? Who built the houses, the temples, the acqueducts, the city wall? Who made the furniture, the tools, the weapons, the utensils, the ornaments—made them strong and beautiful and useful? Who kept the human race going, somehow, in spite of the constant hideous waste of war, and slowly built up the real industrial civilization behind that gory show?—Why just the slaves and the women.

A religion which had attractions for the real human type is not therefore to be utterly despised by the male.

In modern history we may watch with increasing ease the slow, sure progress of our growing humanness beneath the weakening shell of an all-male dominance. And in this field of what begins in the nurse as "discipline," and ends on the scaffold as "punishment," we can clearly see that blessed change.

What is the natural, the human attribute? What does this "Love," and "Do good," and "Serve" mean? In the blundering old church, still androcentric, there was a great to-do to carry out this doctrine, in elaborate symbolism. A set of beggars and cripples, gathered for the occasion, was exhibited, and kings and cardinals went solemnly through the motions of serving them. As the English schoolboy phrased it, "Thomas Becket washed the feet of leopards."

Service and love and doing good must always remain side issues in a male world. Service and love and doing good are the spirit of motherhood, and the essense of human life.

Human life is service, and is not combat. There you have the nature of the change now upon us.

What has the male mind made of Christianity?

Desire—to save one's own soul. Combat—with the Devil. Self-expression—the whole gorgeous outpouring of pageant and display, from the jewels of the high priest's breastplate to the choir of mutilated men to praise a male Deity no woman may so serve.

What kind of mind can imagine a kind of god who would like a eunuch better than a woman?

For woman they made at last a place—the usual place—of renunciation, sacrifice and service, the Sisters of Mercy and their kind; and in that loving service the woman soul has been content, not yearning for cardinal's cape or bishop's mitre.

All this is changing—changing fast. Everywhere the churches are broadening out into more service, and the service broadening out beyond a little group of widows and fatherless, of sick and in prison, to embrace its true field—all human life. In this new attitude, how shall we face the problems of crime?

Thus: "It is painfully apparent that a certain percentage of our people do not function properly. They perform antisocial acts. Why? What is the matter with them?"

Then the heart and mind of society is applied to the question, and certain results are soon reached; others slowly worked toward.

First result. Some persons are so morally diseased that they must have hospital treatment. The world's last prison will be simply a hospital for moral incurables. They must by no means reproduce their kind,—that can be attended to at once. Some are morally diseased, but may be cured, and the best powers of society will be used to cure them. Some are only morally diseased because of the conditions in which they are born and reared, and here society can save millions at once.

An intelligent society will no more neglect its children than an intelligent mother will neglect her children; and will see as clearly that ill-fed, ill-dressed, ill-taught and vilely associated little ones must grow up gravely injured.

As a matter of fact we make our crop of criminals, just as we make our idiots, blind, crippled, and generally defective. Everyone is a baby first, and a baby is not a criminal, unless we make it so. It never would be,—in right conditions. Sometimes a pervert is born, as sometimes a two-headed calf is born, but they are not common.

The older, simpler forms of crime we may prevent with case and despatch, but how of the new ones?—big, terrible, far-reaching, wide-spread crimes, for which we have as yet no names; and before which our old system of anti-personal punishment falls helpless? What of the crimes of poisoning a community with bad food; of defiling the water; of blackening the air; of stealing whole forests? What of the crimes of working little children; of building and renting tenements that produce crime and physical disease as well? What of the crime of living on the wages of fallen women—of hiring men to ruin innocent young girls; of holding them enslaved and selling them for profit? (These things are only "misdemeanors" in a man-made world!)

And what about a crime like this; to use the public press to lie to the public for private ends? No name yet for this crime; much less a penalty.

And this: To bring worse than leprosy to an innocent clean wife who loves and trusts you?

Or this: To knowingly plant poison in an unborn child?

No names, for these; no "penalties"; no conceivable penalty that could touch them.

The whole punishment system falls to the ground before the huge mass of evil that confronts us. If we saw a procession of air ships flying over a city and dropping bombs, should we rush madly off after each one crying, "Catch him! Punish him!" or should we try to stop the procession?

The time is coming when the very word "crime" will be disused, except in poems and orations; and "punishment," the word and deed, be obliterated. We are beginning to learn a little of the nature of humanity its goodness, its beauty, its lovingness; and to see that even its stupidity is only due to our foolish old methods of education.

It is not new power, new light, new hope that we need, but to understand what ails us.

We know enough now, we care enough now, we are strong enough now, to make the whole world a thousand fold better in a generation; but we are shackled, chained, blinded, by old false notions. The ideas of the past, the sentiments of the past, the attitude and prejudices of the past, are in our way; and among them none more universally mischievous than this great body of ideas and sentiments, prejudices and habits, which make up the offensive network of the androcentric culture.



THE BEAUTY WOMEN HAVE LOST

We know how arbitrary, how changeable, how helplessly associative, is the "beauty sense." That which gives us a peculiar feeling of deep pleasure, received through various senses, we call "beautiful," whether it be color of form, sound, scent, or touch; but no sensation is more erratic.

Among savages absolute mutilation is considered beautiful; among partially civilized peoples, like ourselves, restriction and distortion in our bodies and those of domestic animals are still considered beautiful; and in matters of fashion, or of food, we all know the helpless proverb—"Every one to his taste."

In this general variability of taste we have in great measure failed to grasp certain laws of beauty which obtain whether appreciated or not. Abstract beauty is but a concept, a thought form for purposes of discussion. The beauty perceived pertains to something, and in that something lie its definitions and limitations. This we practically recognize in certain marked and simple forms. The points which we admire in a horse are visibly not the same as those admired in a fish or bird; the beauty of a given animal must be of its own kind.

So vivid and sharp is this law of association, that precisely the same bit of form and color which we would call beautiful while we supposed it to be an irridescent shell, would strike us with disgust if we suddenly perceived the little object to be a piece of very ancient meat. Beauty must belong—varying with its subject.

The beauty of women has suffered from too narrow a field of appreciation. It has been measured solely from a masculine viewpoint, primarily as a characteristic of sex, secondarily as pertaining to a subject creature; and associatively, to every mad extreme of fancy in nature's variant, the male.

Among other creatures the beauty of the female is mainly that of race. The lioness is a more appreciable working type of feline power than the lion, whose sex-beauty, the mane, is somewhat similar to that of a bison, or a great seal.

In our case, where the dependent female adds to her neutral race-beauty the shifting attributes of sex-attraction, she has gained to a high degree in the field man most admires, and lost in the normal beauty of humanity.

Relative size and strength are elements of beauty in an animal; neither dwarf nor giant is beautiful; and we for many years have dwarfed our women, under the direct effect of restraining conditions and the selective action of the master, whose pride would brook no equal.

Of late years, in some classes and countries, this is changing; so frequently that the tall woman no longer excites remark or disapproval.

There is no reason whatever, in a civilized condition, why the male and female should differ markedly in size, and the difference is disappearing as above noted, as is also the extreme weakness so long held desirable in women.

But in the great majority of cases our women are still content to be what they consider beautiful as women, and never to consider human beauty at all.

The disproportionate part played by costume and decoration in the sex-governed activities of the dependent woman, has given a peculiar cant to her beauty-sense. If she be well dressed,—or so considered, and richly ornamented, her sense of beauty is satisfied, quite regardless of shape, size and color in herself. This is perhaps a fortunate provision to meet our special case, where the male must be attracted as a means of livelihood, and under the average limitations of personal charms. But it is a pity, in the interest of a nobler race, that our preoccupation with cloths should so blind us to the real beauty of the human body.

I once knew a girl whose vanity led her to decline gymnasium work, on the ground that it would make her hands large. The same vanity would have urged her to it if she had even known of the beauty of a well proportioned, vigorous, active body. She had read and heard of small soft hands as a feminine attraction, but never of a smooth, strong neck, a well set head, a firm, pliant, muscular trunk, and limbs that cannot be beautiful unless they are strong.

"Slender," "plump," "rounded," "graceful,"—these words suggest beauty in a woman, but "strong" does not. Yet weakness,—in a healthy adult,—is incompatible with true beauty—race beauty—the beauty women have lost.

In their enforced restriction they have lost the beauty of expression that comes of a rich wide life, fully felt, fully expressed. Look at the puffy negation of a row of women's faces in a street car. Plump women, "pretty" women perhaps, well dressed, "stylish," not ill tempered,—and not anything else! Their range of experience is absolutely domestic; their interests and ambitions are either domestic or what they fondly call "social;" they do not feel, know, or act in the full sense of human life, and their faces show it. They are rated first, last, and all the time as mothers: mothers future, mothers present, mothers past; and much is made of "the maternal expression" in women's beauty. It belongs there, surely. It is a true large part of it; beauty in a woman could not be true which was inimical to maternity; but, but it is not the whole of life.

A man's face may be beautiful with a paternal expression, but if that is all the expression he has, he lacks much.

There is a lack of dignity in our types of female loveliness. There is the appealing type, the coquettish, the provocative, the mysterious; but seldom do we see the calm pride based on nature's mightiest power which should distinguish womanhood.

The woman of the remote past, the far distant matriarchal age, had the beauty of freedom and the beauty of power; though their hands were large, doubtless, and assuredly strong. In much later ages, while losing this, we still kept somewhat of the free beauty of untramelled bodies; but that too has gone under our binding weight of clothes. No free grace is possible under a huge, slouching, heavy hat, or to a body poised on sharp-toed shoes with towering heels.

If we knew beauty—human beauty; if we were familiar from childhood with the real proportions of the body; if we were familiar with pictures of the human figure, and then shown that same figure, the woman's, with her feet artificially mis-shapen and out of poise, her waist distorted, her head obscured, her every action hampered and confined,—we should see the ugliness of these things, as we do not now.

The human woman, now so rapidly developing, will regain the wholesome natural beauty that belongs to her as a human being; will hold, of course, the all-powerful attraction of her womanhood; but will leave to the male of her species,—to whom it properly belongs, the effort of conscious display.



COMMENT AND REVIEW

How many of you have read the life story of Alexander Irvine—"From the Bottom Up"?*

It is one of the most vivid, interesting, readable of books. It talks, it laughs, it lives,—and it reveals. It is not a "confession;" not the overflow of a self-conscious soul like Marie Barklirtseff's outpourings; it is a story; an account of what happened to the man, and how he grew.

A hungry, ragged, barefoot, ignorant little Irish boy; handicapped in all ways but three; unusually fortunate in these. He had a good body, a good mind, a good heart. Up and up and up he pushes; helped now by the body, now by the soul, now by the intellect, till we find him, still in strong middle life, educated, experienced, traveled, enobled by loving and serving, awake to our larger social needs, and working with all his splendid power to help humanity.

Never was there a man more alive; learning Greek roots while delivering milk; converting miners, practicing a score of trades, and boxing like a professional.

The book has a double value; in the hope and courage which must rise from contact with such a personality and its rich experience, and in the strong light it throws upon "how the other half live." As Rose Pastor Stokes so quaintly put it, "Half the world does not know how. The other half lives."

In this book one-half may learn much of the unnecessary misery of "the submerged;" and the other half may begin to learn how to live.

* From The Bottom Up. The life story of Alexander Irvine. Doubleday Page & Co. New York, 1910.

*

The English Suffrage papers are an inspiration—and a reproach.

"Votes for Women"—the London organ of the militant suffragist, is so solid and assured; so richly upheld; so evidently the strong voice of a strong party.

"The Common Cause," published in Manchester, is another, not militant, giving the same sense of a settled position and masterly leadership.

The women of England are awake to their needs, and valiantly support their defenders; but American women, as a rule, are still asleep as to the responsibilities of citizenship. Here suffrage papers still give much space to argument and appeal: there, they are mostly filled with the record of work planned and done; they are party organs, secure and effective.

One of our best is "The Progressive Woman" of Girard, Kansas.

It is edited by a progressive woman—Josephine Conger-Kaneko.

This is a Socialist as well as Suffragist paper, and more than that; it stands for the whole front rank of the woman's movement.

In the August number we read of Kate O'Hare's campaign for congress in Kansas; of "The Socialist Woman's Movement in Russia;" of "The White Slave Traffic"—quoting from Elizabeth Goodnow's impressive book of stories, "The Soul Market;" of "The Work of Madam Curie;" of "The Marriage Contract;" of "The Woman's Suffrage Movement and Political Parties;" with much other valuable matter.

*

The "Arena Club" of New Orleans is doing good work. It has prepared a bill against the "white slave traffic" in Louisiana, which was submitted to the legislature by Hon. J. D. Wall, Representative for East Feliciana, La. This bill is now a law, and the next step is enforcement. This calls for activity on the part of the "City Mothers."

*

"The Union Labor Advocate" is one of our exchanges, and a good one. It is the organ of the National Woman's Trade Union League. One of the most practical and useful of all woman's organizations.

As women work for the world they become more human; becoming human, they organize; and in organization grow in further humanness. This was well shown in the shirt-waist strike of last winter in New York, the new sense of common interest bringing out college women, society women, all kinds of women, to help the workingwomen in their struggle for decent conditions.

Professor Francis Squire Potter formerly of Michigan University, is now general lecturer for the League: a good field for her unusual powers.



PERSONAL PROBLEMS

The Forerunner's question in this department of the June issue, reached a good many, it would seem. Here is another response:

"When people must wake up too early every morning, half dead, or at least half asleep, to begin the ceaseless, monotonous daily grind, keep at it all day until half dead or at least half asleep until too late at night, for the mere privilege of existence, they are too tired to wake up and LIVE—the rest of the night.

When people are entombed in conventions, customs, Beliefs! from which they may only be freed by digging, filing, gnawing, scraping, wearing, themselves as well as their way out, few have the strength and spirit to emerge and LIVE—only occassionally one comes out alive."

"Such purely personal questions as 'how may I, half (or truly a minute fraction of that) educated, half alive by reason of ill-health, wholly unaccustomed to push my way in the world, grub out an existence and keep out of the poor-house, and keep out of the way of others who are doing things;' seem rather too small, and altogether too numerous."

A. These "purely personal" questions are the most universal, and open to the most universal answers.

To "Wake up and Live—World size" means this: Your personality is only the smallest part of your consciousness. A child with a hurt finger howls inconsolably; a conquering king with a hurt finger doesn't know it.

"You" are weak and ill; "you" are half educated: "you" don't know how to work—Just put "we" for "you."

"We," thousands and millions of us, are at present suffering from various wrong conditions. Taken separately, personally, these wrong conditions overwhelm us; each sits down in his or her own little circle of pain, and suffers.

Taken collectively—faced, understood, met, overcome—those wrong conditions can be removed and forgotten.

The writer of this interesting letter (thanks for its kind appreciation!) sees the trouble of living clearly enough, but does not see the joy of living.

In the first place, accept your own pain and loss, whatever it may be, as merely a part of the general pain and loss. Your own, singly, you may be unable to help; but "ours" you can help. Never mind what ails "you"—you can stand it—other people do? The human soul is a stronger thing than you think—you don't use enough of it. Unless the mind is affected, so that one is irresponsible, it is always open to a Human Being to change the attitude of the mind, and enlarge its area of consciousness.

Human Life is a huge Immortal Thing.

It has been on earth for many thousand years.

It is bigger, stronger, better, than it ever was.

It is on the verge of a new consciousness, a new power, a new joy, which will make our poor past seem like a lovingly forgotten babyhood; and our future a progressive Heaven—growing under our hands as we make it.

And our present! This is our present! Get into the game! You are human life. Human life is You.

It's a big thing. It's worth while to be alive—if you are human!

To get a lively sense of historic movement read "The Martyrdom of Man" by Winwood Reade. To get it of life today, read what you like of the rising flood of sociologic and humanitarian books and magazines of today.

When you are socially conscious—a live Human Being—your "personal problems" will take on different proportions. There is no personal trouble so great as the trouble of the world—which we have to face and conquer.

There is no personal joy so great as the joy of the world—which is ours to feel, to make, to steadily enlarge.

Change your own condition if you can, but if you cannot, spread out your life—your Human Life, till your burden is no bigger than a biscuit—to such huge consciousness.

*

"When my children were little and at home it was easy to guide and direct, but now they are in the big man-made world without judgment enough to know that the world standards are wrong, and the home standards of helpfulness and co-operation right.

I believe we are going ahead, and I'm willing enough to help build the road for others to pass over, but must my children hunger and thirst in the wilderness?"

A. This is a wide-spread problem. The trouble lies in our confounding personal and social relations. Our children are in direct connection with us physically and psychically—but not, of necessity, socially. A musician does not necessarily have musical children; a reformer does not necessarily have reforming children. There is no reason why our children should be expected to see things as we do. They may never see the way out of the wilderness as we see it.

They are to love and serve, to shelter, guard, teach—and set free!

We must do our work—and they must do theirs.

*

Here is a question from Detroit.

"I entirely agree with you in believing that children should be governed by reason, and that coercion is a mistake; but how would you suggest dealing with a child before it can possibly understand reason?"

The writer then speaks of the selfishness and rudeness of undisciplined children, and goes on:

"I have always thought that the training of a child should begin from a very early age, long before they can listen to reason at all."

She is quite right. Child culture should begin as soon as the child begins. The difficulty of the average parent is that he or she assumes "reason" to mean reasoning—oral argument.

In the reaction from our old violent discipline, they use no discipline; and for repression substitute gross indulgence.

When a child learns that fire burns by a mild, safe burning, he learns reasonably; the fire reacts—which is not a punishment, but a consequence. He should learn the rights of others as early as his own, and by similar processes. Real child culture calls for far more care and training than the old rule of thumb, but it is of a different kind.

*

"I am very much interested in your 'Androcentric Culture.' Is it your idea that the female organism was the stronger before consciousness existed only, or after that period in prehistoric times?"

For the scientific facts underlying the above work, all readers are referred to Chapter XIV. of "Pure Sociology," by Lester F. Ward. It is—or should be—in every Public Library, and should be read by every woman in the world—and by the men also.



THE EDITOR'S PROBLEM

How to enlarge the subscription list!

To pay its running expenses this little magazine must have about three thousand subscribers. It now has between eleven and twelve hundred.

We want, to make good measure, two thousand more. This is a bare minimum, providing no salary to the editor.

If enough people care for the magazine to support it to that extent, the editor will do her work for nothing—and be glad of the chance! If enough people care for it to support her—she will be gladder.

Do you like the magazine, its spirit and purpose? Do you find genuine interest and amusement in the novel—the short story? Do the articles appeal to you? Do the sermons rouse thought and stir to action? Are the problems treated such as you care to study? Does the poetry have bones to it as well as feathers? Does it give you your dollar's worth in the year? And do you want another dollar's worth?

Most of the people who take it like it very much. We are going to print, a few at a time, some of the pleasant praises our readers send. They are so cordial that we are moved to ask all those who do enjoy this little monthly service of sermon and story, fun and fiction, poetry and prose:

First, To renew their subscriptions.

Second, Each to get one new subscriber. (Maybe more!)

Third, To make Christmas present of subscriptions, or of bound volumes of the first year.



FROM LETTERS OF SUBSCRIBERS

"I am delighted to hear of the Forerunner. No one in the United States is so competent as you to write the whole of a magazine, little or big, from the beginning to end. You have the gift of expression, if anyone has, and, what is still more important, you have something to express."

*

"I enclose in this $1.00 for one year of the 'Gilmanian' and I think it a bargain to get so much of you at the price."

*

"Indeed I am more than delighted to have an opportunity to communicate regularly with you through The Forerunner, and I shall be very proud to be numbered among the charter subscribers."

*

"Herewith I send $1.00 for my subscription, with all manner of good wishes for your magazine. Our family has enjoyed every line."

*

"I laid my copy on her dish, and she was so pleased with it that she came to me with her dollar shortly afterwards."

*

"I enclose $1.00 for a year's subscription. I found The Forerunner most interesting, and shall look forward to it every month."

*

"The magazine is 'bully.' It even exceeds all my expectations, high as these were. There are so many good points about the Forerunner that I hope to come down soon with my husband to congratulate you in person."

*

"I have received the first number of your magazine, and am more than pleased with it. The first article was splendid—and ought to be read before every circle of mothers belonging to the Mothers Congress."

*

Enclosed find two subscriptions to The Forerunner. I am making Christmas gifts to my friends of your interesting and stimulating periodical."

*

"I think The Forerunner foreruns a lot of good things. It is strong, interesting, fearless, yet kindly, genial—I like it."

*

"The magazine is unique and distinctly 'Gilmanesque,' which is a sufficient recommendation to me."

*

"I am constantly surprised at your originality and versatility, and knowledge of human nature."

*

"Of course I have got to have The Forerunner! And I shall read every word of every issue. So will everybody else. But what makes you so lazy? Why don't you set the type?"

*

"Your magazine has more real common sense to the square inch than any I have ever seen. I enclose subscription for one year, beginning with the first number."

*

"I think a very great deal of this publication and shall try to have a complete file of it on hand to use for reference. I know of nothing better in the whole field of the 'Woman Question.'"

*

"I am just 'stuck' on that article 'Why we honestly fear Socialism,' in December Forerunner, and think it one of the best things to circulate for propaganda work that I have yet seen."

*

"Will you please send me a year's subscription to The Forerunner, dating from the first number. They are too good for me to miss any."

*

"I feel The Forerunner will fill a need. In my case it gratifies an absorbing desire. I knew ere it came out that women would get something for which they had waited, Lo! these many years."

*

"Your magazines are splendid and I must be among your regular readers."

*

"The first number of The Forerunner has reached us and we wish to express our appreciation of its excellence and the wish for its long life. Please find enclosed $1.00, our subscription for the current year."

*

"Mrs. ——- and I are delighted with The Forerunner and send this dollar to keep it running our way. Please send samples to the addresses on the attached list. They should all take the paper, and I shall be glad to tell them so the first chance I have."

*

"The ——- Club is using your Androcentric Culture articles as the study one evening each month as they appear. If you can't make something out of men and women, then indeed only a miracle can."

"I must have your magazine all to myself!—and trust to the Lord to provide the material bread!"

*

"B—— and I have just returned from a delightful week end with Mrs. ——-. I told her about The Forerunner—and she naturally feels that life is worthless until she has seen it."

*

"The verses are all brilliant; I don't know how you can think of so many gay and serious things all at the same time. It is as if you took your conjuror's hat out and produced eggs, cannon-balls, perfume flowers, and a whole live, quivering beef at the same stroke. You are a sure conjuror."

*

"Your scintellating first number has arrived. I have been waiting for an hour of leisure in which to tell you how much we have all enjoyed it."

*

"Oh! Charlotte Perkins Gilman! You have—and do—and will—'Contribute to the great stream of civilization'—by courageously obeying the injunction, and calling aloud to your sisters to 'Let your light shine.'"

*

"If you do no other good and great thing you will certainly work one tremendous miracle; you will rouse every lazy brain that gets a glimpse into these pages with such a dynamic force that a real desire may be kindled to Think—Think—Think—for itself."

*

"I am delighted with the magazine. It is meaty, and stimulating."

*

"The valuable readable material in it justifies the absence of any text on the part of the new minister. It will create free souls and that is the great work, for while a dead body is not pleasant to look upon, a dead soul is a thousand fold worse."

*

"I enclose one year's subscription to it for my sister, to whom I am giving it as one of her Christmas presents. And I know she will enjoy The Forerunner as much as I do."

*

"The magazines are very interesting and I wish you much success. I am particularly interested in the suffrage arguments."

*

"I am charmed—thrilled with your strong trenchment work. You are one of the few who clearly see and forcibly express the fundamental difference between the old androcentric world and the new dawning age in which women and men co-operate in world building."

*

"I have been wanting and intending to congratulate you on your effort and result,—and to wish you everlasting success. It is unlike any of the present-day magazines in many ways.

Allow me to say it is most interesting, and Mr. H—— joins me in wishing for this publication a most brilliant future."

*

"Enclosed find $1.00, for which please send The Forerunner, your fine crisp magazine."

*

"I see your think marks on many an article written by both men and women, and I know they have read your books."

*

"I want ten copies of the January Forerunner. I think it is particularly good and the article on suffrage—or 'The Humanness of Women,' one of the very best things I ever read on the subject."

*

"The Forerunner is a great success! I like it all, and it is not disappointing in any respect in spite of the fact that I have been getting more impatient to see it each month since I subscribed for it."

*

"Please send The Forerunner to me at ——- ——-. It does good digging—loosens up the soil nicely."

*

"I have enjoyed The Forerunner very much. I feel that I am getting more than my money's worth; so to help the cause along I am sending you herewith a few names of progressive friends, who will, I think, become subscribers, and help in turn."



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THE SEPTEMBER NUMBER

contains many special features that are readable, timely, lively.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX tells of "The Influences Which Shaped My Career."

ANTOINETTE E. GAZZAM contributes an original article on "Clothes" which is most beautifully illustrated and full of valuable suggestions and pleasing surprises.

THOMAS MARTINDALE, the renowned sportsman and author of "Sport Royal," and other fascinating sporting tales, tells of "The Lure of Hunting." Mr. Martindale never wrote more entertainingly than in this article.

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SPLENDID FICTION, intimate sketches of the personalities of the day, able book reviews, able articles on political, social, civic and national phases of the leading questions of the day, and an entertaining department of Fun, Fact and Fiction, as well as

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"Women and Economics" $1.50

Since John Stuart Mill's essay there has been no book dealing with the whole position of women to approach it in originality of conception and brilliancy of exposition.—London Chronicle.

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"Concerning Children" $1.25

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Wholesomely disturbing book that deserves to be read for its own sake.—Chicago Dial.

"In This Our World" (Poems) $1.25

There is a joyous superabundance of life, of strength, of health, in Mrs. Gilman's verse, which seems born of the glorious sunshine and rich gardens of California.—Washington Times.

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"The Yellow Wall Paper" $0.50

Worthy of a place beside some of the weird masterpieces of Hawthorne and Poe.—Literature.

As a short story it stands among the most powerful produced in America.—Chicago News.

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Indeed, Mrs. Gilman has not intended her book so much as a treatise for scholars as a surgical operation on the popular mind.—The Critic, New York.

It is safe to say that no more stimulating arraignment has ever before taken shape and that the argument of the book is noble, and, on the whole, convincing.—Congregationalist, Boston.

"Human Work" $1.00

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In her latest volume, "Human Work," Charlotte Perkins Gilman places herself among the foremost students and elucidators of the problem of social economics.—"San Francisco Star._

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IN PREPARATION:

"What Diantha Did" (A Novel) $1.00

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THE FORERUNNER CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

AS TO PURPOSE:

What is The Forerunner? It is a monthly magazine, publishing stories short and serial, article and essay; drama, verse, satire and sermon; dialogue, fable and fantasy, comment and review. It is written entirely by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

What is it For? It is to stimulate thought: to arouse hope, courage and impatience; to offer practical suggestions and solutions, to voice the strong assurance of better living, here, now, in our own hands to make.

What is it about? It is about people, principles, and the questions of every-day life; the personal and public problems of to-day. It gives a clear, consistent view of human life and how to live it.

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We have long heard that "A pleased customer is the best advertiser." The Forerunner offers to its advertisers and readers the benefit of this authority. In its advertising department, under the above heading, will be described articles personally known and used. So far as individual experience and approval carry weight, and clear truthful description command attention, the advertising pages of The Forerunner will be useful to both dealer and buyer. If advertisers prefer to use their own statements The Forerunner will publish them if it believes them to be true.

AS TO CONTENTS:

The main feature of the first year is a new book on a new subject with a new name:—

"Our Androcentric Culture." this is a study of the historic effect on normal human development of a too exclusively masculine civilization. It shows what man, the male, has done to the world: and what woman, the more human, may do to change it.

"What Diantha Did." This is a serial novel. It shows the course of true love running very crookedly—as it so often does—among the obstructions and difficulties of the housekeeping problem—and solves that problem. (NOT by co-operation.)

Among the short articles will appear:

"Private Morality and Public Immorality." "The Beauty Women Have Lost" "Our Overworked Instincts." "The Nun in the Kitchen." "Genius: Domestic and Maternal." "A Small God and a Large Goddess." "Animals in Cities." "How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money." "Prize Children" "Kitchen-Mindedness" "Parlor-Mindedness" "Nursery-Mindedness"

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If you take this magazine one year you will have:

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THE FORERUNNER CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

__ 19_

Please find enclosed $ as subscription to "The Forerunner" from 19 to 19









THE FORERUNNER

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER

1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 12 OCTOBER, 1910 Copyright for 1910 C. P. Gilman

Tin soldiers have long been a popular toy. Why not tin carpenters?



ONLY MINE

They told me what she had done— Of her life like a river free: Teaching and showing with tender truth, Giving her light to age and youth, Till fathers and mothers and children grew To listen and learn and see What the village had come to be; How they had no sickness, young or old, And had lost but one from all their fold; For all the people knew How to keep life strong and true; And I asked her how had her love begun To ripen and reach to every one.

She lifted a royal head, Standing straight, as a tree; While troops of little ones clustered and clung To raiment and hand and knee. "Should I not be glad," said she, "In health and beauty and joy like this? Babies by hundreds to cuddle and kiss; A happier town was never sung; A heaven of children for old and young; There is only one that is dead— It was only mine," she said.



THE BOYS AND THE BUTTER

Young Holdfast and J. Edwards Fernald sat grimly at their father's table, being seen and not heard, and eating what was set before them, asking no questions for conscience' sake, as they had been duly reared. But in their hearts were most unchristian feelings toward a venerable guest, their mother's aunt, by name Miss Jane McCoy.

They knew, with the keen observation of childhood, that it was only a sense of hospitality, and duty to a relative, which made their father and mother polite to her—polite, but not cordial.

Mr. Fernald, as a professed Christian, did his best to love his wife's aunt, who came as near being an "enemy" as anyone he knew. But Mahala, his wife, was of a less saintly nature, and made no pretense of more than decent courtesy.

"I don't like her and I won't pretend to; it's not honest!" she protested to her husband, when he remonstrated with her upon her want of natural affection. "I can't help her being my aunt—we are not commanded to honor our aunts and uncles, Jonathan E."

Mrs. Fernald's honesty was of an iron hardness and heroic mould. She would have died rather than have told a lie, and classed as lies any form of evasion, deceit, concealment or even artistic exaggeration.

Her two sons, thus starkly reared, found their only imaginative license in secret converse between themselves, sacredly guarded by a pact of mutual faith, which was stronger than any outward compulsion. They kicked each other under the table, while enduring this visitation, exchanged dark glances concerning the object of their common dislike, and discussed her personal peculiarities with caustic comment later, when they should have been asleep.

Miss McCoy was not an endearing old lady. She was heavily built, and gobbled her food, carefully selecting the best. Her clothing was elaborate, but not beautiful, and on close approach aroused a suspicion of deferred laundry bills.

Among many causes for dislike for her aunt, Mrs. Fernald cherished this point especially. On one of these unwelcome visits she had been at some pains to carry up hot water for the Saturday evening bath, which was all the New England conscience of those days exacted, and the old lady had neglected it not only once but twice.

"Goodness sake, Aunt Jane! aren't you ever going to take a bath?"

"Nonsense!" replied her visitor. "I don't believe in all this wetting and slopping. The Scripture says, 'Whoso washeth his feet, his whole body shall be made clean.'"

Miss McCoy had numberless theories for other people's conduct, usually backed by well-chosen texts, and urged them with no regard for anybody's feelings. Even the authority of parents had no terrors for her.

Sipping her tea from the saucer with deep swattering inhalations, she fixed her prominent eyes upon the two boys as they ploughed their way through their bread and butter. Nothing must be left on the plate, in the table ethics of that time. The meal was simple in the extreme. A New Hampshire farm furnished few luxuries, and the dish of quince preserves had already been depleted by her.